


bigger than my body

by longingly



Series: the visionary & the architect [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood, Character Death, F/M, Past life, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26360356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longingly/pseuds/longingly
Summary: On a cool evening during the Fifth Astral Moon, The Oracle closes her eyes and knows that when she opens them, she will open them as someone else.--The Oracle was not always The Oracle, and did not always have a name for her Sight-- but there are so many lives that she has Seen. These are some of her own.
Relationships: Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Series: the visionary & the architect [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909951
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> for ffxiv writes day seven - nonagenarian

On a cool evening during the Fifth Astral Moon, The Oracle closes her eyes and knows that when she opens them, she will open them as someone else.

She is still a girl-– not even ten winters seen-– and not yet accustomed to the drop that signifies the oncoming tidal wave of what she will come to know and name as her Sight. And it _is_ a drop– like she’s a coin tossed into a well that never splashes, or a pebble kicked down a ravine that never hit rock bottom, or a chick fallen from its nest too-soon, staring up at the wide, blue sky thinking: _this is it, I’m done for, I’m gone. I never said goodbye._

So she is terrified of this gulf that exists within the core of her, of course she is terrified.

The Oracle–- who is, in truth, not yet The Oracle: she is still in possession of her name, a name she _recalls_ , and it is ██, a name she _values_ , and it is ██, a name that is hers to keep, and to _hold_ , and to _know_ and it is ██-–does not often feel even at this tender age, but _fear_ is a universal constant across all creatures that live and breathe, an animal instinct that rears its head when danger presents itself and oh, she knows, she _knows_ , that when this drop reaches up from beneath to twine its way around her fragile ankles, it does so with the intent to pull _her_ , as ██, _under_ , to consume and subsume her very essence.

For the sun blots all else when one stares directly at it, does it not? When one turns their gaze to the star above, to peer at it unshielded, at that piercing light, unyielding, all-knowing, all-seeing, all-consuming?

The scream inside her head is a desperate one in a muffled cavern that swallows it up without the courtesy of an echo–- and then ██ closes her eyes and opens them as Azem.

You are a Viera, in this life, and you are celebrating your nameday. 

Ninety six is young for your kind, and you remind him as much from the placid pool that he refuses to join you in. He waves you off, dappled lighting playing off of his pale features as he smiles like a cat from the shade. It is rare for him to join you so far out into the wilds, and you sometimes wonder how he is always so pristine despite his perilous travels to meet you in these forbidden trysts.

The Golmore Jungle that you call your home is as vast as it is lush, untouched by the very notion of empires and rulers. Nature in all her beauty ensconces you in this grotto, this quiet place you have brought him to with no small amount of secret concern.

As intruder and wood-warder; you are not meant to be– and in truth, you wonder how he remains so captivating to you while being so infuriating: as you take your _well earned_ respite he is eating your portion of sweets, one bite at a time. 

From the water you rise, like a cresting wave, a laugh in your voice as you reach for him with your hand outstretched, longing to bring him back with you into that cool, blue water, for no reason besides the sheer and wondrous delight of it, to crystallize this moment beneath a perfect and cloudless sky, to live, and to laugh, and to have this moment, this _one_ last moment, your _final_ moment, the moment you do not have, the moment you are denied, the moment that dies on your tongue and the copper that slides along it. You see the shape of your name in his mouth more than you hear it, and you do not need to gaze upon your breast to see the arrows that have flown true and clean.

The pristine water swirls crimson as you attempt to speak;

But as intruder and wood-warder, you are not meant to be. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While The Oracle sleeps, a Vision of the past blooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for ffxiv writes day nine - lush

Hyperion slid out of their robes, letting the drab things pool at their feet by the door, forgotten. Their discarded mask gets more care; delicately placed upon the mantle, a finger smudged beneath one eye. Thus concluded a hard day’s work– which was to say, a hard day of dodging questions from the rest of the Convocation upon their arrival back in Amaurot. 

Honestly, they weren’t wholly sure why they had to answer _any_ at all when Elidibus could do enough talking for the two of them– and since he knew all the answers already, the little sneak– but Hyperion supposed that stories from afar would not be the same coming from the Emissary as it would be from the Wanderer. Especially since the last time he’d tried to tell a story in any _earnest_ sense Hyperion had quite nearly fallen asleep in Hades’ lap, the poor thing– But that was neither here nor there.

Or was it?

Hyperion blinked, fingers still outstretched to send a sizzle of a spark to their fireplace as they often would, so that it might crackle to a warm, green delightful light. But upon their couch laid someone _else_ asleep, with a book half turned over his face as he laid snoozing, golden hair ruffled as he breathed so steady and so shallow– in, out, in, out. 

Dear Hades– their Hades– was this where he’d been all afternoon? Taking shelter in the lush surroundings of a home not his own? Hyperion found themselves jealous– they’d had to seek shelter from Hythlodaeus on their way to their home at the tower lest they be accosted. 

All the same, fondness bloomed in their chest– as it always did, bright and warm and clean– and delicately Hyperion slid onto the floor next to him, laying their head upon the cushion next to his, their mismatched gaze studying him as he rests.

He was as beautiful as ever– but tired, too. Every time Hyperion returned there were darker circles beneath his eyes and more furrows between his brow, even in rest. A grievous decision loomed on their horizon– a collective one to determine the fates of many and more– and it was one that Hyperion wanted no part of. If they could, they would refuse the very knowledge of the heinous act the Convocation’s planning.

They could not, of course. So they did the next best thing:

Refused the Convocation of their presence, as often as possible, for as long as possible. 

A coward’s rebellion, perhaps, but a small rebellion all the same. Perhaps in those final hours before their horrible choice Hyperion will gain the strength to tear away.

They took one of Hades’ hands into their own, holding it gingerly and tracing the webbing between thumb and forefinger. Already they missed the idea of being able to come home to his presence, the notion of holidays celebrated together, of creations exchanged gleefully upon returns from their travels. There really just...hadn’t been enough time. 

And what time they had, they’d squandered a great deal of it.

There was no point in speaking of the decision they’d come to while together: they have had all of these fights already out in public where all could see. 

Only quiet contemplation remained down that road, and grief. So much grief. 

Instead, when Hades rouses, Hyperion will pull them from the couch to kiss him silly. They will have dinner together, a welcome surprise. They will concoct something new using a strange bird brought back from another land with golden wings, giving it the ability to sing through the night. They will talk about those who are talking-- the ones who have rousing debates and who of them are “winning” and by “winning” Hades means who is being the most insufferable. 

They will pretend. 

They have to.

\--

Emet-Selch looks down at The Oracle’s sleeping head in his lap, running his fingers through her hair. Her Sight was particularly strong this eve; strong enough that her vision of Amaurot had roused him with a bout of nostalgia so powerful it had nearly doubled him over in pain.

He smiles down at her, tight. She is not awake to see it nor analyze it, so her permits it.

What a painful time, those final days. For more reasons than one. He allows himself a single, dry laugh as he takes her hand in a direct copy of her memory.

“I suppose it was good practice, my dear,” he murmurs, kissing her palm. Each word aches like a gaping wound. “I have indeed done a great deal of pretending since.”

**Author's Note:**

> join fellow writers and readers in [the bookclub](https://discord.gg/enabling-debauched-xivfic)!!


End file.
